Wait, I Have A Good Prompt: HANNIGRAM ROADTRIP!

wait, I have a good prompt: HANNIGRAM ROADTRIP!

The drive stretches long, roads unfurling like ribbons of asphalt, the scenery shifting in slow gradients of green and gold. The car hums beneath them, the low sound of the engine steady, hypnotic. Will drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh, until Hannibal reaches over and places his own hand on top of it, fingers curling slightly, a quiet claim.

Half an hour later, they pass a field.

“Look. A cow," Hannibal notes, with complete sincerity.

Will side-eyes him. “Yeah. We have a lot of those.”

Another few miles. More cows.

“Look,” Hannibal says again, perfectly calm. “A cow.”

Will exhales slowly through his nose. “Hannibal.”

More cows.

“A cow.”

Will groans, running a hand down his face. “If you say that one more time, I’m pulling over and leaving you with them.”

Somewhere along a long stretch of road, they stop at a tiny roadside diner.

Will stirs his coffee, watching Hannibal inspect his plate with all the enthusiasm of a man deciphering hieroglyphs.

“Something wrong with your eggs?”

Hannibal exhales delicately. “They appear to have been cooked aggressively.”

Will laughs. “Yeah, I’m sure you were real delicate with the ones at your house.”

Hannibal spears a piece with his fork. “I raise chickens with dignity, Will.”

Will leans back in his seat, grinning. “What, did you give them poetry lessons before you butchered them?”

Hannibal considers this. “Not explicitly.”

The road before them seems endless and golden, flickering with mirages in the heat. The car is filled with a comfortable hum, the engine, the low static of the radio, and the occasional sound of Will sipping from a gas station coffee that is, against all odds, actually good.

“Look,” Hannibal says, pointing. “A cow.”

Will grits his teeth. “I swear to God, if you—”

They pass another one.

Hannibal: “A cow.”

Will grips the wheel, exhaling.

Another field.

“Several cows.”

Will groans loudly, slumping forward over the steering wheel. “Hannibal, I swear on all things holy—”

Hannibal, watching him suffer, smiles contentedly to himself.

An hour later, they pull into a gas station in the middle of nowhere. It’s the kind of place that sells both cigarettes and questionable taxidermy.

Hannibal is inside, scrutinizing the snack aisle as though choosing fine wine, when Will grabs two bags of gummy worms and a Red Bull from the fridge.

Hannibal looks at him with mild disapproval. “You insist on fueling yourself exclusively with artificial flavors.”

Will shrugs. “And you insist on standing in front of the jerky display like a serial killer deciding which part of the human body to eat first.”

Hannibal glances at the jerky in his hand. Then at Will. Then back at the jerky.

Will narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to answer that.”

Hannibal places the jerky in their basket anyway.

Somewhere in the winding backroads, with the windows down and the scent of wild grass drifting in, Will takes one hand off the wheel and slides it over Hannibal’s knee.

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, just rests his own hand over Will’s, tracing absentminded patterns along the back of it.

They don’t talk for a while. Just the sound of tires on gravel, wind rustling through the trees, the occasional flicker of the radio catching static.

Then Hannibal murmurs, “If I had met you earlier, do you think we would have taken a trip like this?”

Will glances at him. “You mean before the murders?”

Hannibal smirks, turning his hand over to lace their fingers together. “Before the murders.”

Will hums, thinking. Then he squeezes Hannibal’s hand. “Yeah.” A pause. “Except you would’ve still pointed out every cow.”

Eventually, after too many hours in the car, Will sighs, pulling into the parking lot of a roadside motel.

“We stopping here?” Hannibal asks.

Will turns off the ignition, groaning as he stretches his arms. “Yeah. My back is 80 years old, and I’m not sleeping in this damn car.”

Hannibal reaches over and gently kneads the back of Will’s neck with his fingers. It’s a slow, methodical movement, easing out the tension. Will exhales deeply, tilting his head into the touch.

“Keep doing that,” he mutters. “Might even forgive you for the cow thing.”

Hannibal presses a kiss to his temple, warm and lingering.

Later, when they’re lying in bed, Will half-asleep with Hannibal curled against him, warm and steady, Will mumbles, “Kinda nice, just driving with you.”

Hannibal smiles against his shoulder. “We should do it more often.”

Will huffs out a quiet laugh. “Maybe somewhere with fewer cows.”

Hannibal, already drifting off, murmurs, “Unacceptable.”